


Personal Security

by Kangofu_CB



Series: Security Issues [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Begging, Dom/sub Undertones, Edging, Hair-pulling, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Subspace, because of a lack of pre-established safewords, gentle dom Bucky, use of the traffic light system, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 08:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: “Have dinner with me,” the other man said, once Clint was sorted, and it was neither a demand nor a request, but somewhere in-between in a way that sent a tingle down Clint’s spine.“Now?” Clint blurted, glancing around at the afternoon sunshine that filtered through the trees around the museum entrance.James chuckled.  “Tonight,” he corrected.  “I’ll pick you up at seven.”“Sure?” Clint said, bewildered and- okay, he was still a little overwhelmingly turned on, and more than a little confused by James’ interest in him, by the firm conviction of his statements.  “I can- I can do that.”It was disconcerting to be the object of so much attention, especially having made such an utter fool of himself in the elevator.“Good,” James said, and he smiled, a little, a bit of the sunshine warmth he’d shown Natasha, but tempered with something darker and more heated.  “Wear something nice,” he instructed, and when he walked away his hand trailed down the bare skin of Clint’s arm, and his thumb ghosted over Clint’s knuckles in a way that made him shiver.What thefuck.





	Personal Security

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Villainny (Nny)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/gifts).



> So the first bit of this was a gift fic to Nny, who'd been having a bad few days and I wanted to cheer her up. It was initially posted on Tumblr entitled "Security Issues"
> 
> The second half is pure, unadulterated filth, and it's (as usual) Clara's fault, because we had a conversation about how the James Barnes of this fic had a very... domineering presence.
> 
> In light of the change, I've obviously renamed it.
> 
> So if anyone is reading this for a continuation of the interesting premise of Nat and Clint as professional museum security testers, **this is not that.**
> 
> There are no break-in shenanigans, and there is only the barest semblance of plot. 
> 
> I am not sorry.

“Stop that,” Natasha hissed, her head bent over the brochure she’d picked up at the ticketing counter, where her words would hopefully not be picked up by the security cameras.  “We’re supposed to be _professionals_.”

 

And they were.  They were professionals.

 

They’d been professional thieves, and now they were professional security consultants, ever since Clint had gotten shot in Dubai and Natasha had had to drag his bleeding, half-dead body out of sight and keep him alive and infection-free for three days until they could sneak out of the country.  She’d taken one look at his pale, listless face and decided it was time for them to go straight.

 

It had only taken her a couple of weeks and a half dozen phone calls - including one to Tony _fucking_ Stark - to get them set up as a legitimate security firm, and now instead of robbing museums, they ‘tested security’ and then suggested modifications to prevent people just like them from taking advantage.

 

All of the adrenaline rush, but none of the danger that had left Clint without full mobility of his right leg.

 

“Aw, c’mon Nat, you know no one ever really watches the elevator cameras.”  Clint continued staring up into the camera, giving it his best ‘come hither’ look, and stretching provocatively for the viewer.  

 

Maybe not quite _all_ of the adrenaline rush, then.   

 

Clint never could resist attracting a little attention, and most elevator cameras were notoriously unmonitored and easily taken advantage of.  No one had ever called him out on even his most outrageous behavior, which had, at one point, included changing his entire outfit down to his briefs.

 

“It’s practically part of the job,” he insisted, rubbing his own nipples through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

 

“You’re going to end up arrested,” Natasha murmured, moving a bit farther away from him in the car.

 

He shrugged.  Wouldn’t be the first time.  

 

Capitulating to her exasperated huff, Clint subsided, restraining himself to the corner of the elevator, where he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and watched the numbers go up.

 

They typically always started at the top floor of any museum, working their way down until they got to the lowest levels where, usually, the least interesting artifacts were displayed but where the most valuable _undisplayed_ items were kept in storage.  Clint checked out camera positions and blind spots, while Natasha took note of electronic security, like pass keys and coded entries.

 

It was a system that worked well for them, and they typically compiled information after two or three visits before their first ‘mock’ break in.

 

The museum was always aware that the test was coming, of course, because they’d done the hiring, but Clint and Natasha never let on when the exact date would be, and their first visits were always anonymous and undercover.

 

Today was just a casual trip, to look around and get a feel for the layout, not to test any of the security measures.  They’d go back to the small hotel room they’d rented - security consulting was not quite as profitable as actual thievery - and come up with a plan of action later, usually over pizza if Clint had any say in the matter.

 

The elevator lurched to a stop and gave a quiet chime as it arrived at the topmost floor, which, in this case, was the fifth story.  Clint made a mental note to try and get up on the roof sometime in the next two visits, to both see how difficult it might be, and also to to get a feel for how a rooftop approach might pan out for their little break-in.

 

The doors slid open and waiting on the other side was a tall, severe-looking brunette, whose name tag read ‘Maria’ and identified her as a museum docent.  Her eyes flicked over Natasha, assessing, and then narrowed at Clint.

 

He swallowed roughly.

 

“My friend in security sent me to meet you.  He said to tell you that he enjoyed the show, and wondered if you might be interested in a more private viewing later.”

 

Clint felt the embarrassed flush climb up his chest to his throat and settle in his cheeks and the tips of his ears.  He was absolutely certain that he was the exact shade of a fire hydrant, and also that the person in question in security was watching his every reaction.  His mouth opened and closed on his lack of verbal response, and Maria’s lips curled up, ever-so-slightly.

 

“Please let him know Clint will be available after we tour the Egyptian exhibit,” Natasha answered for him, strolling calmly out of the car and tugging Clint behind her.  Maria gave a short, sharp nod and walked away, badging through a door marked ‘Employees Only’.

 

Clint stumbled after Natasha, eyes barely on the dark corners of the exhibit, where he was supposed to be making note of cameras.

 

“I did warn you,” Nat said, amused, as she tucked her arm into his elbow and guided them through the Ancient Americas displays.

 

“Shit,” Clint croaked, dry-mouthed and heart pounding.  He’d been- well obviously he’d been in much worse scrapes than this, even the gunshot wound notwithstanding, but he hadn’t ever _embarrassed_ Natasha before, and he felt instantly and immediately terrible.  “Shit, Nat, I’m sorry.”

 

She huffed a small laugh that did little to cool the heat of his embarrassment and guilt. “It’s fine,” she said, low and soothing.  “It was bound to happen sooner or later, and anyway, I think you’ll find security here a bit more forgiving than you’re expecting.”

 

Clint couldn’t decide whether that was ominous or not.

 

They made it through the Americas exhibit, wandered down a floor to see the Fabergé eggs and the gemstones, which were much higher in the building than Clint would have expected, and rounded out their morning with Ancient Egypt, which was dark enough that Clint couldn’t even make out the security camera locations, but which he still felt was pretty prime for thieves.  When they emerged, blinking, into the sunlit hallway, courtesy of large, floor-to-ceiling windows, a tall, broad-shouldered brunet man was waiting for them, arms crossed as he leaned against the concrete pillar near the stairs.

 

He was wearing dark charcoal slacks and and a lighter grey shirt and tie, though the shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.  His left arm was scarred, Clint could see, even from a distance, but it didn’t seem to hinder the man any as he uncrossed his arms and strode towards them.

 

And damn, what a stride.

 

Clint was a little bit afraid for his life and a little bit aroused in a confused jumble of sensation.  

 

The expression on the man’s face didn’t help, all jaw-clenched seriousness, with a hint of stubble and steel-grey eyes.

 

Clint shivered.

 

Natasha elbowed him.

 

“James,” she greeted, stepping forward to meet the man who, Clint noticed, was wearing a museum badge that clearly labeled him as ‘Security’.

 

James’ entire expression softened as he met her, his murder-face becoming something warm and welcoming as he smiled and his eyes crinkled.

 

“Natalia,” he said, all low, rough Brooklyn drawl and Clint very nearly melted into a strangely-turned-on puddle in the floor.  He felt his bad hip hitch under him as he shuffled a bit forward, and he listed to the left to compensate.

 

Grey eyes darted to his movement, taking in the jerking recovery, the weakness in his leg without the accompanying sting of judgement.  

 

Natasha went up on her toes to press a kiss to James’ cheek, and he turned back to meet her gaze, still smiling.

 

“Who’s your friend?” James rumbled, glancing again at Clint, who’d recovered enough of his wits and his balance to at least stand up straight and try to look presentable.

 

Obviously a lost cause at this point.

 

Natasha smirked.  “James, this is Clint Barton, my business partner.  Clint, this is James Barnes, an old friend.”

 

‘Old friend’ could mean anything in Natasha-speak, including someone who’d once tried to kill her.  Clint had no idea. He held his hand out to shake, watching as James’ eyes flicked between it and Clint’s face for a half second before he accepted.  

 

“Mmm,” James agreed.  “I’ve heard a lot about you Clint.”

 

He made Clint’s name sound like… like something sexy, like something Clint didn’t have the brain cells to put together at the moment, he just knew he wanted to hear James say his name like that a lot more times, preferably in a more naked environment.

 

“I- um, hi?” Clint said, awkward, his voice breathless in a way he hadn’t at all expected.  “I, uh, haven’t heard about you at all but it’s nice to meet you?”

 

“Oh it will be,” James assured him, his eyes flicking over Clint’s body again.  “If you’re anything like your elevator persona.”

 

*

 

“I’ll see you later,” Natasha said, as they exited the museum, a knowing smirk on her face at Clint’s continued off-kilter attitude.  They’d done the paleontology hall and lunch, James having exited with the parting shot about Clint’s behavior on the elevator, and Clint remembered precisely nothing about any of the things he should have been paying attention to for those activities.

 

“I- okay?” he said, confused, as she brushed a barely-there kiss against his jaw and strolled off into the crowd.

 

She was barely out of sight when James materialized at his side, startling Clint enough that he nearly tripped, was only kept upright by James’ firm but gentle grip on his elbow.

 

“Have dinner with me,” the other man said, once Clint was sorted, and it was neither a demand nor a request, but somewhere in-between in a way that sent a tingle down Clint’s spine.

 

“Now?” Clint blurted, glancing around at the afternoon sunshine that filtered through the trees around the museum entrance.

 

James chuckled.  “Tonight,” he corrected.  “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

 

“Sure?” Clint said, bewildered and- okay, he was still a little overwhelmingly turned on, and more than a little confused by James’ interest in him, by the firm conviction of his statements.  “I can- I can do that.”

 

It was disconcerting to be the object of so much attention, especially having made such an utter fool of himself in the elevator.

 

“Good,” James said, and he smiled, a little, a bit of the sunshine warmth he’d shown Natasha, but tempered with something darker and more heated.  “Wear something nice,” he instructed, and when he walked away his hand trailed down the bare skin of Clint’s arm, and his thumb ghosted over Clint’s knuckles in a way that made him shiver.

 

What the _fuck_.

 

He made his way back to the hotel in a daze, found Nat lounging on the chaise in the sitting area of their room, sipping at a glass of wine she’d gotten from god-only-knew where, her feet tucked under her and her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail with a book in her lap.

 

“I put some clothes on your bed,” she said, without looking up.

 

“Huh?” Clint goggled.

 

“For your date,” she answered, blinking up at him.  “You do have one, don’t you?”

 

“How did you know that?” he asked, suspicious, narrowing his gaze at her.  “Did you plan this?”

 

She hummed a little.  “No,” she said, slowly.  “But you’re exactly James’ type, and I suspect you’ll find he’s exactly yours as well.”

 

And that- that definitely sounded a bit ominous.  Clint hadn’t been aware he _had_ a type, unless his type was ‘bad decision’.  He’d left a string of poorly-thought-out relationships behind him, in cities all over the world.  And, to be fair, some of that was because he was dating in the criminal underworld, but much of it was because Clint was, in a word, a disaster.  A complete dumpster fire of repressed emotions and poor decision making.

 

But Natasha had always looked out for him, and he didn’t think she’d be setting him up for failure, especially not with someone she’d called a friend.

 

“How exactly do you know James?” he asked, toeing his shoes off and settling into the chair opposite her.  He had a few hours yet, before his ‘date’ and he had time to get a little background. “And why does he know about me, but I don’t know about him?”

 

She sighed, setting the book aside, and reached to pour him a glass of wine as well.  Clint wrinkled his nose but accepted it. He wasn’t much of a wine drinker. He took a sip, and it wasn’t terrible, so he kept the glass in his hand.

 

“We worked together a few times,” she hedged.  “Before you and I met. He was… mmm… he was in the Army for a while, before he got injured, and then went into private security.”

 

Clint assumed private security meant mercenary, but he didn’t say anything.  It wasn’t like his own past wasn’t grey at best.

 

“He was actually who I called when we needed to get out of Dubai in a hurry, so I owe him one.  He didn’t come himself, but he sent a friend of his to help smuggle us out. It’s coincidence that he’s working this particular job at this particular museum, but you shouldn’t let the opportunity pass you by.  I think he’ll be good for you.”

 

Frowning to himself, Clint let himself settle into the chair, slowly working his way through the glass of wine.  Natasha didn’t say anything else, and Clint didn’t ask. He knew her well enough to know that was all the information he was going to get out of her, and he was frankly surprised she’d said even that much.

 

He’d been staring into space, considering James’ face and his smirks and the way the charcoal pants had fit him just right, and the way he just seemed so goddamn sure of himself and-

 

Natasha took the empty wine glass out of his hand.

 

“Go, shower, change.  Shave,” she said, emphatically, and made a shooing motion at him.  

 

One glance at the clock told him it was already 5:30 and that was arguably a lot earlier than Clint would typically start getting ready for _anything_ short of an infiltration mission, but James _had_ said to wear something nice and-

 

Clint shooed.  

 

He felt stupid, in the shower, when he caught himself scrubbing carefully at every bit of himself, especially the ones that could, potentially, be getting personal with James, but that didn’t stop him doing it, nor did it stop him wondering whether he should… manscape, or something.  It didn’t stop him taking extra care with his shave, when he was usually haphazard at best, and it also didn’t stop him trying to tame his hair into some semblance of neatness with a little tin of product Natasha had helpfully left on the countertop.

 

What the fuck was _wrong_ with him?

 

On his bed, Natasha had left a neatly-folded stack of clothes for him, which Clint reached for gingerly.  It was glaringly obvious that they weren’t from his suitcase, because none of them were ratty jeans, a hoodie, or tac pants.

 

Instead, she must have _shopped_ , because there were navy trousers and a cream colored, cable-knit sweater, along with a belt, shoes, and brand-spanking new socks and boxer briefs.

 

Seriously, what the _fuck_?

 

Clint pulled the clothes on without comment, making a face at the brown leather shoes.  The sweater was soft, at least, and comfortable, and the pants fit well but weren’t so tight that Clint was worried he wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably.

 

The pleasantly surprised expression on Natasha’s face was almost worth just putting them on.

 

“Do I pass muster?” he asked, holding his arms out and doing a 360 degree spin.

 

She made a little pleased sound in the back of her throat.  “Oh, I think you’ll do.”

 

“A white sweater, though?” Clint whined, knowing there was no way it was going to make it through the night unscathed.

 

“Use your nice manners,” Natasha said, unconcerned.  “I know you have some.”

 

A knock sounded on the hotel room door, and Clint swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat, where it joined the influx of butterflies in his stomach and when was the last time he’d ever been this nervous about going to dinner?

 

He opened the door to find James standing on the other side, in black pants and a grey blazer, with a black t-shirt underneath, and okay, Clint was glad for Natasha’s helpful interference.  Nothing he could have thrown together from his pathetic wardrobe would have come close to meeting that standard. James looked good enough to _eat_.

 

Maybe they could skip dinner.

 

“Hi,” James said, smirking a little as he took in Clint’s entire ensemble.  “You look fantastic.”

 

Clint felt himself simultaneously flush and then preen at the compliment, and what even was wrong with his brain?

 

“Th- thanks.”  He cleared his throat.  “You- uh, you too.”

 

James held out his hand.  “Hungry?” he asked, and Clint let himself be pulled out of the hotel room, let James tangle their fingers together.  Natasha gave them both a little finger wave as she clearly settled into her chair for the evening, book and wine in hand.

 

“I won’t wait up,” she called, cheerfully, and James snorted.

 

They walked to the restaurant, some small, semi-exclusive Asian fusion thing that Clint had never heard of, but which smelled amazing.

 

James held the door for him, a hand on the small of Clint’s back, and gave his name to the hostess, who sat them with no delay, despite the fact that the restaurant was busy enough for there to be a wait.

 

Clint slid into his chair, fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater and jiggling his foot under the table and completely unable to get out of his own head long enough to enjoy himself.  The waiter brought water and menus and then made himself scarce at James’ raised eyebrow. Clint flicked through the menu nervously, barely even looking at the words.

 

“Hey,” James said, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Clint’s wrist.  “Hey, relax. It’s just dinner.” He slid his feet against Clint’s overly-mobile foot, forcing it still.  “I’m not going to kidnap you or whatever terrible scenario you’ve cooked up over there.”

 

Clint couldn’t help but snort a laugh.  James might have been a mercenary, or whatever he’d done in his past life, but Clint was still damn difficult to kidnap and even harder to _keep_ kidnapped.  He’d been picking locks since before he could read, and he’d learned to be bendy in the circus.  Maybe he couldn’t move as well as he used to, but he was still pretty slippery.

 

“I don’t think you’re planning to kidnap me,” Clint reassured him.  “I’m just- I mean look at you, I don’t- I’m really not sure why I’m even here.”

 

“Do you want to be here?” James asked, propping his head on his fist.

 

“Well,” Clint sputtered, “I mean, _yes_.  I just don’t know why you’d want me to be here.”

 

The smirk was back.  “Well, you’re pretty easy on the eyes.  But I think you’re interesting, and I’d like to get to know you better.”

 

Clint blinked at him.  “You think I’m _interesting_?” he questioned, in disbelief.

 

“Sure,” James said.  “I do know a _little_ about you,” he reminded Clint.  “I’ve known Natalia for years, she speaks highly of you.  Occasionally tells me about your exploits. I know you once broke her out of a Turkish prison with a belt buckle and a garrotte wire, but you didn’t actually strangle anyone.”

 

The story startled a laugh out of Clint.

 

“I know your favorite color is purple and you like to drink raki when you can get it.”

 

Clint laughed again.  “Okay, you obviously know more about me than I know about you, and that seems unfair.”

 

James shrugged.  “Ask me anything you want.”

 

He went for the easy kill.  “How do you know Natasha?”

 

“We did a job together in Uzbekistan, back in ‘99.”  James said it easily, matter-of-factly, and it jived well with what Natasha had told Clint.  

 

“Why do you call her Natalia?” Clint asked, this time out of curiosity.  

 

“That’s what I knew her as.  We were working with the USSR, at the time.  Are all your questions going to be about Natalia? I’m starting to feel jealous.”

 

Clint snickered.  “Boxers or briefs?”

 

“Come home with me and find out,” James said, raising an eyebrow.

 

The waiter chose that moment to make his presence known, and Clint still hadn’t even picked his menu back up.  He glanced down at it in defeat, and looked back up to find James regarding him curiously.

 

“I can order for you,” he offered, and Clint-

 

Clint would eat literally anything, up to and including dumpster pizza, so what did it matter to him?  He made a ‘go ahead’ gesture, and for some reason that made James’ smile turn pleased in a way that Clint didn’t really understand.

 

He ordered for both of them, something with salmon that Clint didn’t pay much attention to, and the waiter went away again, leaving them to their own devices.  

 

“Well,” James said, picking up his glass of water, “what else do you want to know?”

 

“All the same things you know about me,” Clint decided, reaching for his own glass.  “Your favorite color and your favorite liquor and whatever prisons you’ve broken into or out of.”

 

James’ smile turned sly.  “All the same things I know about you, huh? Hmmm.  My favorite color is red, and I prefer my whiskey neat, and I haven’t broken into any prisons lately, but I did break out of a German holding cell once.”  He leaned forward on the edge of the table, like he was sharing a secret. “I prefer blondes to brunettes, I almost exclusively date men, and I’ve never slept with Natalia.”

 

Clint blinked at him, bemused.

 

“And that,” James continued, “makes us about even, I think.”

 

Clint’s stare turned a bit wide-eyed, because that implied-

 

Well it implied a lot, including the fact that Natasha had tattled about the night they’d spent together.

 

“Nat is a dirty traitor,” Clint said, instead of asking about any of the rest of it.  “We don’t talk about Budapest.”

 

“Because it was that good or that bad?” James asked, grinning.

 

“You tell me,” Clint retorted.

 

It was James’ turn to laugh, unfettered and genuinely amused.  “It was a favorable report,” he admitted, “though I didn’t get any details.”

 

“Explains your interest in me,” Clint said, biting down on a grin.  “Clearly my reputation precedes me.”

 

James snorted.  “Your reputation as an excellent marksman and talented thief, maybe.  She was surprisingly tight-lipped about your bedroom prowess; said I’d have to find out for myself.”

 

“And yet, here you are.” Clint gestured expansively, including both of them and the restaurant in his hand wave.

 

“Here I am,” James agreed.

 

Sometime during the cheerful banter, Clint had let go of the nervousness that had consumed him when they arrived, no longer fiddling with his clothes or fidgeting, though his foot was still bracketed between James’ ankles, and he clearly had no intention of letting go, settling in comfortably when their food arrived.  

 

The food, which was delicious and which Clint succeeded in _not_ spilling all down the front of himself, or even on himself at all, finally put his fork and knife down with his sweater’s pristine glory intact.

 

Natasha was right, he did have good manners.  Occasionally.

 

James paid the check before Clint even had a chance to ask.

 

“Not staying for dessert?” he teased, and James shot him an amused look.

 

“I had some thoughts on that,” he admitted, standing up and offering Clint his hand.  

 

“Oh?”

 

“There’s a bakery a few blocks down that has a really excellent cheesecake,” James said, navigating them out of the restaurant with his hand again on Clint’s back.  

 

“Or?” Clint asked, hearing an expectant pause.

 

“Or I have raki and lemon tarts at my place, if you’re interested.”

 

“What if I were interested in something other than dessert?”

 

James cut a sidelong glance at Clint, the edge of his mouth curving up.  “That could be arranged.”

 

“Mmmm.”  Clint pretended to think about it.  “You went to a lot of trouble to have my favorite drink, I should at least come by to sample it.”

 

James laughed again, wrapping his arm around Clint’s waist and tugging him closer. Clint was just a little taller, something he hadn’t quite noticed before because James’ presence made up so much of his stature.

 

The silence between them was more comfortable this time, Clint no longer the kind of nervous that made him tongue-tied, but instead the kind of anticipatory nervousness that made his skin buzz.

 

“How did you get into security?” he asked as they walked along the waterfront.

 

“Natalia told you what I did before?” James asked.

 

“Army,” Clint said, “and then ‘private security’ which I took to mean mercenary.”

 

James snorted.  “No, I really did private security.  My best friend - we joined the Army together, spec ops, and he got out not long after I was discharged - he started a company.  S.H.I.E.L.D. We did glorified bodyguard duty for anyone willing to pay our rates. He still runs the company, but I got tired of the danger of it.  Branched out. Now I train security guards for private firms, companies, museums - places like that.”

 

Several things clicked into place for Clint.  “You hired us,” he exclaimed, startled.

 

“I did,” James admitted, giving a little shrug.  “Natalia is very good at what she does.” He turned his head to look Clint in the eye.  “You’re both very good - you came highly recommended. And it was an opportunity.”

 

Clint let the knowledge settle, felt momentarily suspicious and then dismissed it.  He and Natasha _were_ very good at what they did, with exorbitant rates but equally excellent results.  The momentary thought that James had hired them to meet Clint was absurd, and he relaxed back against James’ hold.

 

James directed them under an iron arch, through the doors of a historic brick building.  He led Clint through a tiled foyer to an elevator that took them directly to the eleventh floor and opened into a spacious apartment.  

 

It was… homier than Clint would have expected.  The hardwood floors were a warm shade of brown, and there were built-ins and comfortable furniture.  Somehow he’d thought it would be all modern, clean lines and hard-edged furniture. Instead, it was somewhere Clint could picture himself.

 

Which was dangerous territory.  

 

James led Clint through the living room and into a sleek kitchen that was more what Clint would have expected, except for the mosaic tile floors.  He opened the pantry to retrieve the promised bottle of raki, pulling out two glasses and filling them with ice before pouring the liquor over them.

 

“The youngest person is supposed to serve,” Clint said, accepting the drink when James handed it to him.

 

James shrugged.  “Are you saying I’m old?”

 

Clint laughed and took a sip of the Turkish liquor. He looked James up and down thoroughly.  “You look old enough to know your way around a bottle of liquor,” he said, finally.

 

“That’s not the only thing I know my way around,” James agreed, stepping closer.  He set his glass aside on the marble countertop and plucked Clint’s out of his hand and placed it beside his own.  He reached up, wrapping a hand around Clint’s neck and the other around his back, pulling him in close and tugging his head down for a licorice-flavored kiss.

 

Their mouths fit together perfectly, soft at first, just a gentle slide of lips, and then James nipped at his bottom lip, slipping his tongue into Clint’s mouth when Clint moaned.  Clint’s hands fisted in the back of James’ blazer and then worked their way underneath, to the heat of skin through his thin t-shirt.

 

James backed him into the counter, just rough enough to take Clint’s breath away, to startle a gasp out of him, and James took full advantage, exploring his mouth like he was trying to lap up the hidden taste of the raki he found there.  He was unrelenting, the hand at Clint’s back sliding under the sweater to bare skin, where he dragged his nails sharply enough to make Clint groan and arch into it.

 

Trailing his mouth along Clint’s jaw to his throat, James nipped at his earlobe, and Clint shuddered.

 

This was all rapidly blooming out of his control, and Clint was not at all unhappy about it.

 

“I want to take you to bed and fuck you stupid,” James growled in his ear, and Clint actually felt his knees buckle a little.

 

“Okay,” Clint said, breathless.  “Yeah, sounds good.”

 

They stumbled down the hallway to the bedroom, and Clint had enough time to notice masculine furnishings and a tall, upholstered headboard, and then his sweater was being pulled over his head and tossed aside, James’ mouth nipping across his collarbone as his hands roamed all the newly-exposed skin.

 

When his fingers fumbled at Clint’s belt, Clint froze, minutely, but James noticed immediately, backing off enough to look at his face.

 

“My um, my leg is-”  Clint swallowed, feeling stupid.  “Nat told you I got shot?”

 

James gave a short, sharp nod.  “In Dubai. Steve came and carted you both out.  I remember the details, vaguely.”

 

“My leg looks sort of fucked up,” Clint admitted.  “I had a lot of reconstructive surgery, but there was muscle damage and there’s- there’s a lot of scarring.”

 

James cocked his head.  “Does it hurt?”

 

“If I over-tax it,” Clint said.  “It’s weaker than my other leg, and I’m not as bendy as I used to be.  Mostly it looks worse than it is.”

 

Taking a step back, James stripped off his blazer, tossed it over a chair, and held his left arm out to Clint.  The skin was shiny and hairless, melted-looking in some places and scarred from skin grafts in others. Clint gently ran his fingers over it.

 

“Does it hurt?” Clint echoed James’ earlier question.

 

He shook his head.  “More numb than anything.  I got caught in a firebomb in Somalia.  Medical discharge.” James stepped in close to Clint again, pressed his still shirt-covered chest against Clint’s bare one, traced his finger tips up Clint’s spine.  “You still want to do this?”

 

Clint nodded, overeager and enthusiastic, and James huffed a small laugh.

 

“Okay.  What do you like?”

 

“I like your clothes off,” Clint retorted, pulling at the hem of his shirt.  James stripped it off obligingly, revealing a body that was proof positive that James might have left the Army, but he’d kept the physique.

 

“What else do you like?” James asked, amused, as Clint trailed his hands over James’ abs.

 

Clint swallowed, throat dry, as nerves flared to life again.  “I like- to be fucked,” he admitted. “I like to be on top, but I can’t really- my leg usually gives out pretty fast. I like blowjobs,” he quirked a grin, “giving and receiving, and I dunno- the usual stuff I guess? What do you like?”

 

James pulled him down for another kiss, this one slower but just as thorough, until Clint’s racing heart was more arousal than nerves or embarrassment.  

 

“I like,” James said, when they broke apart, “to be in charge.” He backed Clint towards the bed, unbuckling his belt as they went.  “I like to take care of my partner; I like to make sure they’re having a very good time.” He glanced up at Clint through his lashes, with flushed cheeks and dilated pupils.  “I like them to do what I say,” he added, reaching up to tweak Clint’s nipple. “And I like to reward them when they do.”

 

Clint’s breath hitched in his chest as his entire nervous system caught on fire.

 

James made a knowing little humming sound.  “You good with all that?”

 

Clint nodded.

 

“I need a yes, sweetheart.”

 

“Y- yes,” Clint croaked.

 

James dragged Clint’s pants down his thighs, and then gave him a little push, so that he fell back onto the mattress with a bounce.  James knelt at his feet, sliding his shoes off and tucking them under the edge of the mattress, along with his socks, and pulling the pants the rest of the way off, throwing them casually over an ottoman at the foot of the bed.  He leaned up and dragged his lips along the scarring on Clint’s thigh, mouthing at the ruined skin and nipping sharply at the edge of his boxer briefs.

 

Clint took a shaky breath.

 

James nosed at the erection tenting his underwear, blowing hot breath through the thin cotton and making Clint break out in goosebumps.  

 

“You have a safeword?” James asked Clint’s dick, and Clint choked on a laugh.

 

James looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, and then rolled his eyes.  

 

“No,” Clint said, still fighting back laughter.  “Do I need one?”

 

James shrugged.  “Probably not, but it’s good to have one anyway.  You know the traffic light system?”

 

Clint nodded.

 

James stared at him expectantly.

 

“Yes,” Clint blew out a puff of exasperated air. “Yes, I know the traffic light system.  Green for go, yellow for slow down, red for stop.”

 

“Good,” James said, and tugged the waist of Clint’s underwear down to wrap his lips around Clint’s dick.

 

“Oh fuck,” Clint said, fisting his hands in the duvet and letting his head drop back.

 

James sucked gently, letting his tongue swirl around just the head, until Clint’s hips were twitching and he felt like he was going to _die_.

 

And then James stopped.

 

Clint whined a little in the back of his throat.

 

“Reward for good behavior,” James reminded him, and tugged at the underwear until Clint lifted his hips and let him pull them off.  He stood up smoothly, and Clint was now naked on the bed and James-

 

James was still nearly fully dressed.  

 

Clint bit his lip on the snarky remark he wanted to make.  James was watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, like he was waiting on something, and when Clint didn’t say anything, he smiled, slow and easy.  

 

He took two steps to the side, opening the bedside table drawer and tossing a nearly-full bottle of lube, a few condoms, and a small towel onto the bed.

 

Then he stripped his pants off, quick and efficient.

 

“Briefs!” Clint said, before he could stop himself.  James was wearing tight, navy blue briefs that left just enough to the imagination to be tantalizing, but not enough that Clint didn’t recognize a sizeable bulge.  His mouth watered a little in anticipation.

 

James paused with his hands in the waistband of the briefs, eyeing Clint for a moment.  “Briefs,” he agreed, smirking a little, and moved closer, leaning over Clint to ravage his mouth with a deep, biting kiss.  Clint’s hands came up off the bed to wrap around James’ hips, to feel the cotton of the briefs under his fingertips, and the expanse of smooth skin above and below them.  He tugged, a little, at them and James broke the kiss to look down at him, considering.

 

“You can, if you want,” James said, and Clint eased the briefs down over his erection, past his thighs until they dropped to the floor.

 

“I wanna get my mouth on you,” Clint said, stroking his thumbs along the thin skin of James’ hips.

 

“So do it.”

 

It sounded like a dare.

 

Clint was good at dares.

 

He leaned forward and wrapped his mouth around the gorgeous erection bobbing in front of his face, swallowed it down as far as he could go, and then a bit farther.  Circus skills weren’t all sleight of hand and flashy performances.

 

James hissed out a breath and reached forward to wrap his hand around Clint’s jaw, thumbing at the corner of his mouth where it was stretched around his cock.  “God, baby, that’s so good.”

 

Clint’s brain lit up in response to the praise and huh, that was a thing he didn’t know about himself.

 

He groaned a little, around his mouthful, and sucked harder, leaning into the touch on his face and closing his eyes.  Clint enjoyed sucking dick - he enjoyed the feeling of it in his mouth, rasping over his palette, enjoyed the way it made his partners feel, the way it made them look at him, like he was some kind of magic.  He enjoyed the barely-tangible feeling of usefulness it gave him, like he was doing something worthwhile.

 

Opening his eyes, Clint took in James’ expression through his own haze of pleasure.  James was watching him, his eyes still heavy and dark, something approving in his expression that went straight to Clint’s gut.  His hand moved from Clint’s face to his hair, where he tightened his fist in a handful of it, tugging gently.

 

Clint couldn’t stop the high-pitched, needy noise he made.

 

James let him go on for a few more minutes, making low, breathless noises and murmuring praise, until Clint’s lips were tingling and nearly numb, and then he tugged Clint off of him.  He leaned down, when Clint made a disappointed sound, and traced his lips over Clint’s - now sensitive and swollen - before biting down gently.

 

“You’re so good,” James said, against his mouth.  “You make me feel so good I’m gonna come, and I have a lot of plans for you first.”  

 

Clint moaned.

 

“Up on the bed,” James said, nudging Clint lightly until he scrambled backwards to sprawl out on the pillows.  

 

James followed him up, until he was pressing Clint back into the mattress, stretched out over him and peppering him with drugging kisses.  James’ mouth was everywhere, sometimes on Clint’s mouth, and then on his throat, across his chest, a tongue dragging over his nipples. Clint closed his eyes and let himself go, let himself enjoy the attention.  

 

He barely noticed when James hitched his left knee over his elbow, definitely didn’t notice the sound of the lube being snapped open, but James’ fingers brushing across the sensitive place on his perineum and moving slowly back, until he was circling Clint’s hole - that got his attention.

 

“Oh fuck,” Clint said, arching into the touch.

 

“Color?” James asked, pausing.

 

“Green,” Clint said, blinking his eyes open.  “All the green. The greenest.”

 

James snorted a laugh but that didn’t stop him from pressing a finger inside of Clint, rocking it until Clint was moving in counterpoint to the touch, silently begging for more.  He kept up the assault of kisses, too, pressing his mouth on sensitive places Clint didn’t even know he had, like under his ribs and the inside of his elbow, and along the edge of his bent knee, tonguing soft skin and nipping at creases.

 

The second and then third fingers slid in just as smoothly, James stopping to check on Clint each time, asking him for his color, checking to see that he was alright.

 

“Green, green, everything is green,” Clint panted, as James twisted his wrist and lightning shot up his spine.

 

James laughed, low and smoky, and did it again.

 

“Oh fuck,” Clint said, so hard his dick was throbbing in time to his pulse.  “Please.”

 

“Please what?” James asked, rocking his hand a little further, a little harder.

 

“Please fuck me,” Clint groaned, arching his spine and trying to take James’ hand deeper.

 

James made a thoughtful sound and then took his hand away entirely.

 

Clint whined, reaching for him.

 

“Hush,” James said, sitting up and wiping his hands on the towel he’d left on the bed.  “I”m gonna take care of you, I promise. Sit up.”

 

Scrambling to do as he was told, Clint shifted until he was sitting up on his heels, feeling open and exposed and _empty_ in a way that sang across his nerves.  James leaned into him, slotting their mouths together for another of the kisses that Clint was quickly becoming addicted to, and ran soothing hands down Clint’s sides.  

 

He was panting for air, he realized, shaky and overstimulated and greedy for more contact.  James held him and kissed him until he was relaxing into the hold, until everything didn’t feel quite so urgent, and then James eased back, trailing kisses along Clint’s neck and shoulders as he slowly maneuvered himself behind Clint and they were pressed together chest to back.

 

“You said you like to be on top,” James said lowly, right into Clint’s ear.

 

Clint nodded, swallowing hard.

 

James sat back, leaning against the headboard so that he was partially upright with his legs sprawled on either side of Clint’s knees.  Clint turned to look at him over his shoulder, to see miles of pale, smooth skin, James’ cock hard and dripping against his thigh, with a predatory look on his face, and shivered.

 

“Come here,” James said, holding out his hand.

 

Clint started to turn, to twist around so that he could throw his leg over James’ hip, but James stopped him.  

 

“No,” he said, smirking.  “Stay like that.” He tugged Clint’s hips closer, and Clint realized he’d positioned himself so that Clint could basically just sit directly in his lap, and on his dick.  James leaned up, so that his hot breath ghosted across Clint’s shoulders when he spoke. “I want you to be on top. I want you to fuck yourself open on my dick, and I want to watch you do it.”

 

The noise that came out of Clint’s throat was both indescribable and completely involuntary.

 

“Oh, you like that,” James said, dark and knowing.  “You like that I’m gonna watch?”

 

Clint shakily nodded.

 

James hummed and scraped his teeth across Clint’s spine.  “Good.” He leaned back again, settling against the headboard and the pillows, and reached for a condom, rolling it down over himself.  He settled his hands on Clint’s hips again and gave him a gentle pull of encouragement.

 

Clint swallowed hard, and for a second he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except sit, exposed, with his back to James.  And then James ran a soothing hand down his back, wide and warm and patient, and Clint took a deep breath.

 

He could do this.  This wasn’t even close to the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

 

Hell, he _wanted_ to do it.  Wanted to stretch himself over James’ lap and ride his dick and be called ‘good’ again.

 

He moved, rearranging his knees until he was straddling James’ thighs, and James shifted his legs to accommodate him, pulling them closer together so that Clint could comfortably spread his knees, and eased back, before he realized he couldn’t see what he was doing.

 

“Can I- can you-”  Clint lost his words, but, luckily, James seemed to understand.

 

“I got you baby,” he said, and one of his hands left Clint’s hip to grasp himself, and Clint felt the head of James’ cock brushing up against him.  He pushed back, letting gravity do most of the work, feeling the burning stretch of penetration. His breath hiccuped in his chest.

 

“You’re doing so well,” James soothed, his voice low and calm.  “You look so good; you feel amazing.”

 

“Oh fuck,” Clint groaned, rocking back more, filling himself up.

 

James’ hand came back to Clint’s hip, both of them helping to support Clint as he worked himself onto the thick cock stretching him wide.  James let Clint go at his own pace, in gentle rocking motions, until his thighs were burning and he was fully impaled.

 

“Oh god,” Clint said, panting for air.

 

A thumb brushed across his stretched rim and Clint jerked, surprised at how good it felt.

 

“Look at you,” James crooned, and Clint felt a blush working its way down his throat.  “All stretched out around me. Feel good baby?”

 

Clint nodded.

 

James squeezed his hip with the hand still holding him, a reminder.

 

“Yeah- yes,” Clint said, around his dry throat.  His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

 

“Color?”

 

“Still green,” Clint said, huffing a little breathless laugh.

 

James ran his hand down Clint’s weaker, right thigh, felt the fine tremor in it.  His thumb never moved from where it was stroking gently across where he was buried in Clint’s body.  “What about your leg?”

 

“Maybe yellow,” Clint admitted. It wasn’t going to support him riding James backwards like this, he knew, though he could probably manage a few thrusts.  

 

“Mmm,” James said. He shifted, canting his hips up and making Clint gasp as it pressed his cock right up against Clint’s prostate.  “Lean back,” James instructed, wrapping his arms around Clint’s waist and tugging.

 

Clint did, feeling the burn and stretch in his thighs, but before he could say anything, James was gently grabbing his right ankle, maneuvering it out from under him and letting his leg stretch out around them.  He did the same with Clint’s left leg, until Clint was resting his weight fully on James’ pelvis, his legs splayed on either side of James’, and James’ cock was so deep inside Clint that he could barely _breathe_.

 

“Still green?” James asked, stroking lightly along Clint’s torso.

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Clint agreed, letting his head rest on James’ shoulder.

 

James continued his caresses for a few seconds, until Clint relaxed against him, his body almost limp and pliant beneath James’ hands.

 

“In the elevator, you were doing this,” James said, and trailed his hands up to Clint’s nipples, plucking at them until they hardened.  

 

Clint arched into the touch.  “Yeah,” Clint agreed. “Yeah, I like that.”

 

“Not just for show, then.  What about this?” James slid his hand lower, dragging his nails across Clint’s abs and teasing along the edge of his groin, close to but not where Clint _really_ wanted him to touch.

 

“Please,” Clint said, again.

 

“Just relax,” James said, wrapping his hand loosely around Clint’s cock.  “I promised to take care of you. All you have to do is sit here and keep my cock warm.  You can do that, can’t you?”

 

Clint nodded dumbly.  Fuck. Fuck that was hot, and fuck if Clint knew why.

 

James bent his knees, forcing Clint’s legs further apart and his cock even deeper, and Clint tried to grind down on it, only to find he had no leverage at all, his legs dangling on the sides of James’ thighs and his back pressed up against James’ chest.  His feet just barely brushed against the top of the bed, enough to keep them from going numb, but not enough to allow him any control.

 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he groaned, and felt James press a grin against the side of his neck.

 

James gave his dick a firm squeeze.

 

Clint jerked in response, and James pressed an unyielding hand to Clint’s hip.  “Be still,” he instructed - almost _commanded_ and _fuck, that was hot too_.  “Just sit here and take it.”

 

Oh god, Clint was gonna die.

 

He was gonna die, but what a way to go.  He nodded, biting his lip and trying to go limp against James.

 

The problem was, _the problem was,_ he had a cock stuffed up his ass, and every minute movement he made or James made reminded him of that very important fact.  

 

James let go of his hip and reached for the lube, popping the cap to drizzle the cool liquid over the top of Clint’s cock.

 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Clint said, again. “Oh God, you’re gonna kill me.”

 

“Just a little,” James agreed, and slid his still-clenched fist up Clint’s cock and through the lube, and back down in one sure, smooth glide.

 

Clint’s hips jerked again, James’ cock nudged against his prostate, and Clint’s brain dribbled out between his ears.  

 

He tried to be still.  He really did. He tried to stay loose and pliable, tried not to thrust up into James’ grip or down onto his cock, and he tried not to arch into the fingers tugging and twisting his nipples and scraping down his chest.  

 

Clint tried.

 

Mostly, he failed.

 

But the position he was in ensured he couldn’t move _much,_ and James kept making reassuring, calming sounds in his ear, even as he nipped at the lobe with his teeth and Clint was _going to die_.

 

“Please,” he begged, honest-to-god begged.  

 

“You wanna come baby?” James asked, his voice bedroom-thick, and his fist still working over Clint’s cock.

 

Clint nodded jerkily, his head lolling against James’ shoulder.  “Yeah, yes, _please_.”  His breath was coming in pained gasps, and he was so close he could taste his climax, but James kept it just out of reach.

 

“But you look so good like this,” James said, slowing the motion of his hand.  Clint nearly sobbed. “Stretched out on my cock, writhing under my hands. I like it a lot.  You look so pretty.”

 

And _fuck_ but Clint had never been called pretty before, had never even thought he _wanted_ to be called pretty.  But when James said it in that voice, while he looked over Clint’s body in his lap-

 

 _Fuck_.

 

“Please,” Clint said again, and he was sure he’d never said please so many times in his _life_ , much less in one sexual encounter.

 

“I’m going to let you,” James said, and Clint exhaled in a rush of relief. “But,” James said, and Clint tensed in his arms.

 

“Shh,” James said, stroking along Clint’s side until he relaxed again.  “I’m going to let you come,” he said, “but if you come now, I’m still going to fuck you until _I_ come.”

 

Clint shivered.  “Okay,” he croaked, willing to do anything at this point.

 

“You sure baby?” James asked, his hand barely moving on Clint’s cock now.  “When you come I’m gonna roll you over, fuck into your tight ass, and you’re gonna be oversensitive and it’s gonna hurt a little.  You sure you want that? Or do you wanna wait, and you can come while I’m fucking you?”

 

“How- how long do I have to wait?” Clint asked, trying to think through the haze of arousal and imminent climax.

 

James made a thoughtful sound, reaching down to tug Clint’s balls away from his body, gently, staving off the orgasm Clint was oh-so-close to having.  “As long as I want,” he said, wrapping his fingers around Clint’s dick again.

 

Clint groaned.

 

“I wanna come,” he decided, breathless and shivering.  

 

And, if Clint were being honest with himself - which he almost never was - the idea of James fucking him while he was limp and spent and unable to do anything but take it was doing things to him he didn’t expect but fully wanted to investigate.

 

“Okay baby,” James said, as he thrust upwards at the same time that he started stroking Clint’s dick in earnest, with short, sharp jerks, meant to drive Clint towards orgasm as quickly as possible.  “You can come whenever you want.”

 

Clint came with the force of a freight train, so hard he nearly bit through his lip, aware of nothing except overwhelming pleasure and his own heartbeat thumping in his ears for several long, syrupy moments.

 

“Oh god,” he wheezed, slumping in James’ arms.

 

James, who was rubbing soothing circles on his chest, and carefully cleaning him off with the towel he’d used earlier.

 

James, who still had a rock-hard cock in Clint’s ass.

 

Oh god.

 

“You good sweetheart?” James asked, stroking along Clint’s arms and shoulders.

 

Clint gulped down more air, feeling his heart rate lowering to something approaching normal. “Yeah, fuck, yeah. I’m great.”

 

James laughed softly, the motion jolting him inside Clint and making Clint whimper.  He grazed his teeth along Clint’s neck, sucked a bruise on his throat. “I’m going to fuck you now,” James said.  “Unless you tell me not to.”

 

“No, I- I want it.  I want you to,” Clint stammered, felt his face heat up.

 

James reached for two of the pillows they weren’t using, tossed the towel over them, and then rolled both he and Clint to the side, until Clint was sprawled with his hips on the pillows and his face in the mattress, James cock still buried deep inside of him.

 

“Oh Jesus,” Clint moaned, feeling every motion acutely against his swollen, sensitive prostate and the stretched rim of his hole.

 

“You asked for this,” James reminded him, adjusting the pillows so that Clint could be a boneless pile, until there was no pressure on his bad leg, and no need to hold himself up at all.  Clint heard the snap of the lube cap again, and James pulled out a little, dragging over Clint’s tender insides, and drizzled more cool lube over both of them.

 

Clint hissed at the sensation.  

 

“Color?” James checked.

 

“Green,” Clint said, stubbornly.  He _had_ asked for this.

 

“Clint,” James said, holding absolutely still and gripping Clint’s hips.  “What color are you right now?”

 

“Maybe-” Clint licked his lips.  “Maybe yellow? A little yellow. Like chartreuse.”

 

James snorted, and leaned over, careful not to jostle Clint this time, and pressed kisses along his shoulders.  “And what color are you if you want me to stop?”

 

“Red,” Clint answered.

 

“Good,” James said, and shift his hips forward, rocking gently into Clint, and it felt- it felt just like James had described, oversensitive and a little bit painful, but the _good_ kind of painful, the kind that set off sparks behind his eyelids and made him want to rock back into the sensation.  “That’s so good, sweetheart. What color are you now?”

 

“Green,” Clint slurred, already arching his back to take James deeper.

 

“And what do you say if you’re not green anymore?”

 

“Yellow.”

 

“Right.”  James nibbled along his spine.  “And if I need to stop?”

 

“Red,” Clint said again, sinking into the sensation of being fucked so sweetly.

 

“Perfect, Clint.  You’re perfect sweetheart.”  Clint shuddered, hard. No one had ever, even once in his life, called Clint _perfect_.  “Now,” James said, easing off of of Clint’s back to sit up further.  He pressed Clint’s thighs together with his knees, and pressed his palm against Clint’s lower back.  “Stay just like that, baby, nice and tight for me.” He thrust forward, harder, and Clint whined in the back of his throat.  

 

James did it again, and Clint gasped.

 

Everything felt like too much, and at the same time, not nearly enough.  He was squirming within seconds, pinned by James’ hand and coming undone underneath him.

 

James leaned down, pressed a hand against Clint’s shoulder and rolled his hips in a dirty grind that scraped raw across Clint’s prostate.  “You can say anything you want,” he murmured in Clint’s ear, “and I won’t stop fucking you, unless you say red. You understand?”

 

“Oh god,” Clint gasped.

 

“Clint,” James tugged at his hair, hard enough to get his attention, and Clint’s spine turned into butter.  “Do you understand me?”

 

“Yes,” Clint gasped, “yes, green, yes.”

 

James seemed to find that sufficient, because he began fucking Clint like he _meant_ it, hard and unrelenting, settling into the pace like he could do it for forever.

 

“Oh god,” Clint said again, bunching his hands in the duvet.  “Oh god, I can’t.” His cock was getting hard underneath him again, rubbing against the soft texture of the towel, just as oversensitive as the rest of him.  He pressed his forehead into the mattress and couldn’t decide whether to lean into the sensation or writhe away from it.

 

James decided for him by leaning forward, bearing his weight down on Clint and tangling their fingers together.

 

“Oh fuck, I can’t,” Clint said again, struggling.

 

“You can,” James reassured him, _instructed_ him.  “You’re doing great sweetheart, taking me so well.  Gonna make me come - you want to make me come?”

 

Clint nodded against the linen under his face, unable to speak.

 

James fucked into him harder, and Clint sobbed into the bedcovers, writhing from where he was pinned beneath the other man, and so, so close to coming _again_.

 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck.”  Clint’s breath hitched.  “Oh god I’m gonna come, but I _can’t_.”  He could feel tears streaming down his face, overwhelmed and overwrought.

 

“Oh baby,” James said, and he sounded sympathetic, but then he twisted his hips, lining his thrusts up so that every one of them slid against Clint’s prostate until Clint wanted to scream.  “You can come again. You’re _going_ to come again.  I want you to. Come for me, I wanna feel it, feels so good when you come around my dick.”

 

James pulled Clint’s hands together over his head and wrapped his own left hand around Clint’s wrists, and then used his right hand to grab a fist full of Clint’s hair and _yank_.  He fucked into Clint so hard it was almost mean and Clint-

 

Clint came so violently it _hurt_ , the clenching of his abdomen and the spasming of his ass, his vision whiting out as he whimpered and wept and, distantly, heard James groan, long and low in his ear as he came too, hips jerking against Clint.  

 

“Oh my god,” Clint gasped, when he was able to breathe, able to _think_ again.  

 

James had turned them both on their sides, so that Clint wasn’t face down on the mattress anymore, and he’d tucked a pillow under their heads and one under Clint’s right knee, where he wouldn’t be putting any pressure on his bad leg.

 

“You okay?” James asked, running comforting hands over whatever skin of Clint’s he could reach.  

 

“I think I’m dead,” Clint said, struggling to open his eyes.  “Is this heaven?”

 

“I know you just had a religious experience,” James said dryly, “but I’m honestly checking in here.  You were pretty far gone.”

 

Clint knew he’d lost some time - knew he’d been floating somewhere in something that was probably subspace, not that he had any previous experience with that - because he didn’t remember James repositioning them, or pulling out, or moving at all.  “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m good. Fantastic. Best sex of all time, hands down.”

 

“Okay,” James blew out a breath against the back of Clint’s neck.  “Okay, good.”

 

It occurred to Clint that James had been worried.  He reached back and patted clumsily at James’ hip. “Seriously, I feel amazing. Thank you.”

 

James pressed a kiss to his shoulder and gave Clint’s hand a gentle squeeze.  “You’re welcome. I’m going to go get a washcloth and some water, okay? I’ll be right back.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes.  “I’m fine.”

 

“Shut up and let me coddle you,” James retorted, climbing out of the bed.

 

Clint realized the duvet and sheets had been pulled back and the sheet had been draped lightly across the two of them and _wow_ he really had been out of it. Within just a few minutes of James leaving, Clint was shivering and that’s when he realized he wasn’t quite as fine as he’d thought.

 

James was back quickly, though, sliding back under the sheets and plastering himself to Clint’s back, where his body heat went a long way towards easing Clint’s shivers.  James wiped both of them down gently with a warm, damp washcloth, which he flung casually into the bathroom to land on the tile floor. Then he handed Clint a full bottle of cold water.

 

“Drink this,” he ordered.

 

“It’s not as cute when you’re being bossy about drinking water instead of sex,” Clint mused, but obediently cracked the cap and took a long drink.  

 

“Yes, it is,” James said, mildly, and yeah, it kind of was.

 

Clint finished off the bottle quickly, thirstier than he’d thought, and then settled back down next to James, who was still idly petting his skin, up his flank and along his side, and pressing absent minded kisses to his back and shoulders.

 

When he started to drift off, Clint shook himself awake and sat up on his elbow, reluctantly looking around for his clothes.

 

“What is it?” James asked, sounding as sleepy as Clint felt.

 

“I should go,” Clint said, reluctantly.  He didn’t _want_ to go, but he also didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

 

“You should stay,” James disagreed, tugging Clint in tighter to his body.  “It’s late, and I like you in my bed.”

 

Clint felt a warm curl of pleasure in his gut at the easy admission.  

 

“Stay,” James said again, pulling at Clint.  “I don’t want you to be by yourself.”

 

Unable to resist the lure of spending the night in James’ bed, Clint laid back down, let himself be wrapped up as the little spoon, let himself relax.

 

“I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow,” James slurred against the back of Clint’s neck.

 

“Deal,” Clint agreed, and let sleep overtake him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to Clara for the hand-holding, beta reading, and, frankly, whip cracking she did to force me to write this.
> 
> And extra-special thanks to Amberly who looked it over for me for the kink negotiation and traffic light system, because I wanted to get that part right. I hope I've done a decent job. This is, without doubt, one of the filthiest things I've ever written.
> 
> I'm sort of proud.
> 
> Edited to Add: This is my first fic of 2019 and I am starting out with a bang PUN INTENDED


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